Franco and His Ferrari

I had a glass of wine with a girlfriend yesterday at a restaurant in Santa Monica. We caught up on each others lives as we watched the sunset on the beach. When we asked for the check, the waiter told us that a gentleman named Franco had already taken care of our bill. I only know one man in L.A. with that name.

Ten years ago, Franco and I met at a bar when we were both waiting for friends. We spoke briefly, realized we knew a couple of people in common and then exchanged business cards. He called a week later and asked me out to dinner. We met at this same restaurant in Santa Monica-- Sushi Roku.

Franco was in finance. He worked at a large corporation for fifteen years as a self-described 'thug'. They send me in to close the deal," he said. He made a lot of money for this company but was frustrated, knowing they would never promote him to the top ranks. He was good at closing deals, but the company didn't think he had the chops to be a corporate officer. So he left and started his own venture capital company. "Gotta keep moving, gotta keep shaking," he said, as he snapped his fingers on both hands, simultaneously.

While we waited at the bar, I examined Franco more closely. He was tall and muscular with requisite salt and pepper hair. He was wearing an expensive suit jacket and jeans, Prada loafers, a thin gold chain around his neck and sported a ring on each pinky.

The bar was so crowded, we could barely hear each other speak. Franco pushed through the crush of people and ordered a couple of drinks. He turned back and gave me the once over. "Nice tits. They're a little on the small side, but that's ok." A few moments passed before my brain actually computed what he had just said.

I wondered why, during the course of history, clothes were designed to promote and enhance a woman's breast, but not a man's genitalia. I lamented a world where women could behold the family jewels before committing to a date.

Dare I retort with "What a dick!" and add, "Even though you're average in size"? Since the conversation had begun at such a low, there was no point in responding to his statement. It could only go downhill from here. I bit my tongue. I understood why Franco had never been promoted.

He handed me a martini and immediately started in, "I rolled the Ferrari," raising his voice unnaturally with an emphasis on Ferrari. I understand a man's fascination with high-powered cars. Driving a sports car up the coast on a beautiful afternoon can be a transcending experience. The smell of the leather, the feel of the clutch, the sound of the engine and the power at your fingertips is seductive and sexy. However, when a date grinds the clutch or doesn't accelerate about 65 mph, I suspect he didn't buy the car for the ultimate driving experience.

"You got in an accident?" I asked, not sure what 'rolled' meant. "Nah, nah, nah. I flipped it. I turned it over. I rolled it. I'm getting a new one. I've put too many miles on the one I got."

I listened as Franco leaned against a stool, describing the intricacies of owning a Ferrari. Both guys on either side of Franco listened to his pontifications, before turning around to scrutinize me. "Franco, sushi bar for two," rescued the hostess.

Franco ordered enough sushi to feed a large family. He wanted me to try at least one piece of every kind of fish on the menu. This was fun, until he insisted on hand feeding me. "No, really that's ok," I protested, as he shoved a piece of fish into my mouth. I pulled away quickly. "That was too fast," he said. "You gotta do it slower." I fantasized sitting across from Johnny Depp and hearing those same words. Being tipsy on sake and a handsome man feeding me sushi could be an erotic experience, but not with Franco.

When the valet pulled up, I thanked Franco for dinner and sprinted to my car, but he grabbed my arm, pulled me in close and kissed me so hard that my lips parted and he got my teeth. Once free from his grip and safely inside my vehicle, I heard the roar of his engine revving behind me. I quickly pulled away from the curb, happy to finally be on my way home.

... Years later, here I am at the same restaurant. We turned to thank Franco for picking up our tab, but he had already left. I looked up the street and saw a bright red Ferrari. He waved and then peeled off up the coast and into the sunset.